


Touchez Moi

by kittenwrath



Series: Gruff but Tender [10]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Manipulation, Murder, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22271803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenwrath/pseuds/kittenwrath
Summary: Special thanks to @w-248 (on Tumblr) for allowing me to borrow her OC, Rick W-248. After a few chats with her concerning this unique Rick, I’d become very interested in the concept of ‘touch starvation’ and how one could manipulation another afflicted with such a condition.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Original Female Character(s), Rick Sanchez/Reader
Series: Gruff but Tender [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603009
Kudos: 31





	Touchez Moi

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: This story was originally contained in a large Rick fic archive post called "Gruff but Tender". That large archive post has been deleted and all the stories have been re-posted separately. Thanks!

I’d first met the man when I’d discovered him doubled over and heaving in an alley with a teenage boy clinging to his side. Both the man and the boy did not appear, in any way, to be derelict or downtrodden, so I figured it was relatively safe to approach.

“Excuse me,” I hedged, creeping toward them. My view was partially blocked by a dumpster but I could clearly see the boy whip his head in my direction. Worry etched his features and he clung to the man tighter still. “Do you need help?”

Approaching slowly, I was now mere feet away, past the dumpster. The man remained bent at the waist, breathing heavily, as if he’d just run a marathon and I noticed that he was dressed rather well; his clothing obviously well-kempt and expensive. However, he also appeared to be painfully thin. When the man didn’t answer or even acknowledge my question, the boy interjected himself.

“W-w-we’re fine,” he replied, his voice taking an edge that lead me to believe it was a lie. The man he clung to seemed to be completely oblivious to my presence, so I tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder as his head continued to hang low.

Only a moment after I’d made contact, we both flinched back simultaneously. Wrenching my hand to tuck it against my chest, I gasped at the realization that this man was a skeleton draped in designer clothes – his shoulder so bony that even the slight, comforting pressure I’d applied seemed to shift and scrape the fragile plates together like flint.

“Wha – what are you – who the fuck are you?!” the man demanded in a thick, French accent, lifting his head to finally acknowledge me. Suppressing another gasp, I took a step back as my eyes roved his face; sunken, hollow cheeks and eyes and ashen, gray skin making him appear deranged. Perhaps I’d completely misinterpreted this situation…

Taking another glance at the boy, I swallowed around the knot in my throat and introduced myself; attempting to keep my tone light as the man stood to his full height before me. The words ‘Jack Skellington’ flashed in my mind like a neon sign while I forced myself to relax.

“I own the bookstore a few shops down,” I explained, pointing in its direction. “Do you need me to call you an ambulance?” The words tumbled from my mouth as I instinctively fisted the hand that I’d placed on his bony shoulder moments prior. This man looked minutes from death and the boy with him appeared on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“Fuck no,” the man replied. Then, without further ado, he strode down the remainder of the alley and turned the corner with the boy close on his heels.

———-

Several weeks later, I was shuffling through the day’s receipts when I heard the bell above my book store’s front entrance jingle. Checking my watch, I confirmed it was five minutes until closing and groaned.

“Good evening,” I called, rounding the counter to meet the customer at the door.

It was him – the man from the alley.

Appearance wise, he was just as slender as he’d been previous and was dressed just as nice. However, his face didn’t look to be just a thin layer of skin stretched over a skull any longer. It now held more of a flesh tone and the dark bags under his eyes were less pronounced. Issuing only an audible scoff in greeting, he smoothly brushed past me and disappeared into the stacks.

Heaving an exasperated sigh, I checked my watch again – three minutes until closing. _Good thing I have no plans tonight_ , I thought as I tallied up the remaining receipts. I couldn’t close the register down until the last customer left, so I just slouched over the counter and picked up a nearby book.

Surprisingly, I became engrossed in the sci-fi thriller and was startled when the thin man slammed a book of his own on the counter.

“Shit!” I exclaimed before I could catch myself. The man chuckled as I regained my composure. “Did you find what you were looking for?” I asked on autopilot.

“Your selection is shit, but yes – I managed,” he replied. Again, his thick French accent drew my attention and I broke my practiced routine to take a good look at him. His pronounced unibrow was arched in question and he wore a smirk that immediately made me feel a bit antsy.

Taking one last glance at my watch – thirty-six minutes past closing – I quickly rang up his purchase, bagged it and recited his total. Now avoiding his gaze, I reached for the credit card he extended toward me. And, when our fingers brushed, his physical reaction was instant – jerking his hand back before I could even grasp the card, causing it to fall to the counter with a soft clatter.

Retrieving the card, my mind and my heart began to race. Something about this man and his aversion to physical contact suddenly intrigued me. So, once I’d finished with the transaction, I placed the card back on the counter and scooted it toward him, instead. Then, as his claw-like fingers landed on the flat rectangle of plastic, I darted forward and captured his wrist.

He attempted to jerk back – halfheartedly – but I gently coaxed him forward across the counter as my other hand slipped into his in the same manner of a handshake. Again, he attempted to snatch his hand away – until I slid the hand I had wrapped around his wrist downward to brush across the back of his.

The skin was surprisingly soft, like silk, but also felt dangerously thin; as if just a slight scrape of my nails would draw blood. Pronounced veins crisscrossed below the surface and I gently traced them with the pads of my fingers, utterly entranced.

“You’re so cold,” I blurted, finally flicking my eyes upward to catch a look of pure disgust coloring his features. Coming back to my senses, I released him and he took several steps back from the counter before turning to leave. “Rick, wait!”

Halting with his hand on the doorknob, he asked, “What – how do you know my name?”

“It’s on your credit card,” I confirmed. Slowly, he turned – eyes narrowed in suspicion – as I held the bag containing his book toward him across the counter. While he approached, I also retrieved his card and slipped it inside the bag, as well. Snatching the bag from my grasp – only making contact with the plastic – he quickly made his way back toward the exit. Right before he disappeared into the frigid night, I called, “I’m here every day! Please come again!”

And, he did. Sporadically, at first; always right at closing. Initially, he attempted to purchase books as a front, but I easily saw right through it and told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was more than welcome to simply visit me. Of course, he’d scoffed; asserted that my assumption was ridiculous. I allowed him that reprieve while softly running a hand up and down his forearm, the other threaded through his immaculately smoothed hair as his exhales puffed from his lungs with a shaky quality that was endearing.

Touched starved. That’s what Rick was. So much so, that he’d resigned himself to the mercy of a stranger. And, the more I indulged him, the more palatable he became. And, the more palatable he became, the more he divulged about his incredible life.

He was touch starved, yes. But, he was also despicable. In fact, some of the vile stories that spewed from his mouth while I held his emaciated body in my warm embrace had me catching my breath more than once. I continued to indulge him, though; silently plotting the moment I’d plant my seed.

Eventually, our ‘touch sessions’ relocated to a more comfortable environment – my bedroom. Now, instead of turning up at my book store at closing, he’d knock on my front door at the same time each evening.

“Why do you work so fucking much?” he mumbled against my neck as I trailed my fingers down each vertebrae of his spine. For the millionth time, I suppressed a giggle at the thought that I could play them like a xylophone. We were comfortably – well, for him, at least – entwined in my bed with the only illumination emitting from the cracked door of my en suite bathroom. Then, recognizing that this was finally my chance, I pressed a chaste kiss to the crown of his head before replying.

“Because, I can’t afford to hire help. My husband owns half of the business.” Just as expected, he stiffened in my arms and attempted to pull back, presumably to shift his gaze toward my face. However, I tightened my hold and lightly brushed the pads of my fingers across the nape of his neck before pushing them upward into his coarse hair. And, before he could question me further, I continued. “He left me two years ago and I’ve been running the store by myself since. There’s really nothing I can do because he moved out of state and I can’t afford to buy him out or divorce him. So, I’m stuck working my ass off while he sits on his and collects half of the profits.”

“You can – just leave the dump,” he offered, slipping his claw-like hands up the back of my shirt; each digit as cold as ice. A shiver ran down my spine at not only the sudden shift in temperature, but at his unwitting acceptance of my bait.

“I built that store from the ground up. It’s mine,” I defended before dipping my head to swipe my lips, to and fro, across his forehead. He wiggled slightly before tipping his body up and to the side, shifting us so that he was lying directly on top of me. Even though he was more than eight inches taller than me, I outweighed him by at least twenty-five pounds and he felt no heavier than a down blanket.

“Want me to kill him for you?” he whispered directly into my ear.

Giggling, I grasped his shoulders, taking care not to squeeze too hard when his bones shifted and ground against one another.

“Yeah, would you?” I asked, leaning upward to snake my tongue across his jaw. Issuing only a deep chuckle in response, he rolled off me, onto his side, and yanked me toward his chest. Already anticipating his next move, I turned on my side, as well, and allowed him to spoon me until the first rays of sunlight penetrated my bedroom curtains.

———-

The seed had been planted and slowly began to sprout. With each day – with each minute that Rick couldn’t spend in my arms – it grew and budded and blossomed. With each day – with each minute that I watered and cared for my precious crop – the closer it came to harvest.

Months since our initial meeting, Rick had become completely dependent on me as his only source of comfort. Every evening, he’d find some way to bring up my business and his obvious displeasure.

_“That place is a shit hole. I can – you should burn it down for the insurance money.”_

_“I can buy or steal anything you need.”_

_“You always reek of moldy books.”_

_“What do you mean, you can’t take a lunch break?”_

Again and again, I’d cite my husband for his inconvenience; reminded Rick that I could afford to hire enough staff to run the place for me at all hours, if my husband would just… well, if he just didn’t exist.

Then, the day finally came when Rick had ceased trying to convince me to just walk away; when he finally realized that I could be just as stubborn as he. The day finally came that I’d toiled so long and hard for, holding his grossly skeletal body close to mine – enduring his alcohol laced, foul breath and clammy skin – as he seemingly tried to absorb my very essence to mingle with his own.

The day finally came when he showed up at my front door holding a blood soaked brown paper bag, appearing just as worn out and physically distressed as when I’d first met him in the alley.

“It’s done, you conniving bitch,” he sneered, tossing the bloody package through my open door. It slid across the hardwood floor, leaving a sticky smear of crimson that glistened in the accent lighting adorning my foyer.

“What?” I asked innocently, folding my arms across my chest. Each breath he took sounded more ragged than the last and I wondered – or, perhaps, hoped – that he’d drop dead right then and there.

“You know damn well what,” he began while crossing the threshold. “You’re not – you were about as subtle as a gynecologist wearing a gas mask.”

Unable to stop myself, I barked out a laugh as he closed the distance between us and wrapped me in his uncomfortable embrace. I supposed I should have been concerned with the ensuing aftermath, especially since my cat had decided to take it upon himself to inspect a key piece of the evidence as it sat bloody and motionless on the floor. But, I also figured that Rick had his ways to ‘take care of it’ and I’d leave that part up to him.

**_The End._ **

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. I love inserting lines from my favorite films into my fics. Bonus points if you can identify them! :)


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